


Ficletober

by RogueLioness



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fictober 2018, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-07-23 15:32:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 8,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16161758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueLioness/pseuds/RogueLioness
Summary: Short drabbles written during the month of October as part of a self-challenge.





	1. Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt of the day:
> 
>  
> 
> _**Argute** \- characterized by shrewdness, acuteness or sagacity._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
>   _ **Argute** -characterized by shrewdness, acuteness or sagacity_
> 
> * * *

There are many things Maddie knows. Sharp shadows and dulled blades. Cold bellies, and hot eyes.

 

And masks.

 

She knows that everyone has two masks; one they show the world, and the other they hide from themselves. She knows that those who can look at their reflections in the eye are the ones who can be trusted the least.

 

And so even after Blackwell's deceits came to light, she keeps him by her side.

 

That he had pledged his service to her in the early days under the guise of a Grey Warden had been seen as a clever stroke of cunning by the advisors, a sign that Thedas’ most esteemed warriors believed in the Herald’s cause.

 

But Grey Warden, or not, he had always rejected any kind of shiny surface. Coin beyond what he needed was given to those whose pockets were empty. Mirrors were ignored. Ponds with calm waters would see their crystal clear surfaces marked by ripples before he would approach them.

 

The Carta had called her canny, and that - that she was.

 

So it was that despite his lies, despite his past, despite what other people said, she trusted him in a way no one else could fathom or understand - 

 

for she too could not bear the sight of her reflection.


	2. Sonorous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Canorous** -melodious or resonant_
> 
> * * *

It is the one thing that she carries with her all the time. The memory of the way the word rolls off his tongue. Slow and syrup-sweet, it is clear, free from hazy secrets and gritty deceit.

 

It is a beautiful invocation.

 

His voice makes the sound of it resonate within her - some place deep inside the core of her - the only part of her that still holds the innocence of hope. He is a miracle worker, fueling the embers of the burned-out fire that was her confidence.

 

He coos the word into her ear as they walk through lush green forests, the shadows of the trees offering them the privacy they need.

 

He sings the word to her as his hands slide over the contours of her body, his touch igniting a flame so bright it is a wonder it does not blind her.

 

He whispers the word into silken darkness, his arms holding her as close to him as is humanly possible - and even then it feels like he wants more.

 

It is what she wants, too. More. Always more. More of him, and more of his whispered words that make her feel special. That she was worthy of what he offered so freely. That she was worthy of _him._

 

He says it often, and each time it is new, and different, and exciting; and she wonders just how many melodies he can imbue the word with.

 

Never could she have guessed that a single word would be so magical, so wondrous. That it could hold so many emotions within it. That it could be both prayer and promise.

 

 _Vhenan_.

 

 


	3. Finesse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Concinnity** \- elegance or neatness of a literary or artistic style_
> 
> * * *

Parchment, the color of eggshells, stacked neatly on one side of the desk. 

 

Ink the color of night ripples within a crystal jar.

 

Quill, cut from a peacock’s plumage, gripped between dainty bronze fingers.

 

Her forehead scrunches in concentration.

 

The light scratch of quill on parchment.  _ Most honorable Lady Danaria- _ elegant cursive, a legible font, the words slanted ever-so-slightly to the right. T’s crossed crisply, i’s dotted neither too high nor too low.

 

The text has been carefully chosen. The completed document is precise.

 

The sheet folded deliberately into thirds. The envelope, warm cream and made from tree bark, not reed, bleached to stark whiteness and scented daintily with citrus.

 

Antique brass wax-melt spoon, still stained from the last application. She holds it over a flickering flame, and adds a small chunk of wax to it. Watches as it melts, a shimmering gold liquid; pours it with patient consideration over the closed flap of the envelope.

 

She works quickly now; takes up the large metal seal of the Inquisition, presses it slowly into the hardening wax. It takes several moments, then she pulls the seal free, pleased to see the clear imprint of the Inquisition, now in gold.

 

Envelope placed in a tray inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Implements cleaned with a piece of linen, and put away.

 

She closes her eyes. Flexes her fingers to work the tension out of them. Rotates her shoulders to ease the muscles there.

 

She opens her eyes. Takes a deep breath. Pulls a fresh parchment from the stack towards herself.

 

The process starts afresh.

  
  
  



	4. Expiry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Deracinate** \- to tear something up by the roots._
> 
> * * *

She gazed at the plethora of stalks that hung limply from her grip.

 

Elfroot, embrium, spindleweed. Even the dragonthorn and lone crystal grace she’d found were beyond salvaging.

 

Her hand began to tremble.

 

It was her fault, she knew. She’d harvested them terribly. If Keeper Deshanna were here, she’d be scolded soundly. How many times had she been told?

 

_ Take only what you need, da’len. Do not uproot the plant,  for you will destroy what it can give now, and what it will give in the times to come. _

 

And yet, she had forgotten those words.

 

It was her fault.

 

Tears clouded her vision.

 

She should have known better. She should have- 

 

Her shoulders began to shake with stifled sobs.

 

Deshanna was dead. Sora was dead. Ghilen was dead.

 

Clan Lavellan was no more, and it was all her fault.

 

_ Do not uproot the plant _ \- and yet she had, telling her clan to go to Wycome, sending them into the pit of the serpent. 

 

_ Do not uproot the plant _ . How many times had she heard that? How many times had she seen the way the humans treated her kind? When the citizens of Wycome began blaming her people for the mysterious plague that assailed them, she should have known. She should have pulled them out of the city, asked them to return to the forests that were their home.

 

But she did not. She chose to uproot the plant. And now all that remained of Clan Lavellan was its miserable, useless, rock-headed First.

 

A First of nothing but failure and loss, a Keeper of nothing but guilt and shame.

 

The herbs dropped to the ground soundlessly as she sank to her knees, letting out a cry that caused the birds to flee their nests.

 

It should have been her, not them. Why did they have to suffer for something she did? Why did they have to pay the price for her mistake?

 

Gentle hands wrapped themselves around her form, and she was pulled back into a warm embrace.

 

“I- I didn’t- didn’t harvest the herbs the- the right way,” she hiccuped between sobs. “I tore- I tore out- the roots- they’re- they’re of- of no use now, they’re- they’re all- all gone- they won’t- won’t come- back.”

 

Solas held her tighter. She could feel drops of wetness landing on the top of her head.

 

“I know,  _ vhenan _ . Take your time. I am here for you.”


	5. Fortuity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Eucatastrophe** \- a happy ending to a story_
> 
> * * *

She was pacing up and down the small room, the action doing nothing to abate the redness that had infused her cheeks.

 

The Maker had a twisted sense of humor, that was for certain. She winced as she recalled the way Cullen had burst in through the door mere minutes ago, catching her - and the Iron Bull - in the middle of a very private moment.

 

A very  _ intimate _ moment.

 

She swore beneath her breath.

 

It wasn’t supposed to go this way! The gift she had for Bull - the one that was currently burning a hole in the pocket of her breeches - it had been the perfect time to give it to him, after they had spent the day together, after he had given her so much of what she needed. A fresh heat surged into her core as she thought of the way his fingers had slowly entered her, the way he murmured into her ear as he filled her; recalled the way his voice had gone from low and composed to a rough growl as he chased their shared release-

 

“Dani?”

 

She whirled around. “ _ Why _ does this kind of shit keep happening to me?” she grumbled.

 

“You okay?” Bull asked warily.

 

She took a deep breath. “Yeah, I-” she sighed. “This played out differently in my head,” she confessed, slowly making her way back to where he was sitting, on their bed.

 

“But since we have a moment-” she reached into her pocket and pulled out her gift to him, her heart thundering in her chest.

 

She had no idea how he would react to it. She knew his people didn’t believe in love, but- but she cared for him, a great deal, and after all the time they’d spent together she knew he cared for her too…

 

“What’s that?” he asked.

 

She cleared her throat. When she spoke, her voice came out in a surprising squeak. “A dragon’s tooth. Split in two.” She cleared her throat again. “So that no matter how far apart life takes us, we’re always together.”

 

She held her breath, waiting to hear what he had to say. She felt so tense, like she’d shatter into pieces.

 

Bull’s face softened. His lips moved into an easy smile, fond sentiment coating the edges. He reached out for it, his hand wrapping around hers. With a gentle tug, he took one of the two, and slowly tied it behind her neck before draping its twin around his.

 

“Not often people surprise me, kadan.”

 

She had tears in her eyes, but she didn’t care. Her heart was close to bursting with all the happiness it held.

 

“Kadan?”

 

“Kadan.” he affirmed, pulling her carefully onto his lap. “My heart.”

 

She rested her forehead against his. “Kadan.”


	6. Hypnotic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Slightly NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Ensorcell** \- to enchant or fascinate someone_
> 
> * * *

Her breath echoes in the chamber, loud and hitched and filled with need.

 

“Tell me what you want, _vhenan_.” His voice, sly and smug and sorcerous, tempts her to give in. “What is it you desire?” His hands trail up her sides, his fingers graze the sides of her sensitized breasts.

 

She arches off the bed, attempting to chase his touch, but the bindings hold her taut.

 

He laughs softly, the sound a drug in her heated blood.

 

“Tell me.”

 

She mewls, a plea for pity.

 

“Tell me,” his mouth is near her ear now, “and I shall give it to you.”

 

“Solas, _please_!”

 

He catches the tip of her ear between his teeth, tugs on it gently. She chokes out a cry, hips rolling against the mattress.

 

He moves away, and there is silence. She searches for him through her blindfold, desperate for the magic that is his voice, aching for those melodious susurrations that drive her wild.

 

“Solas?”

 

“Tell me your desire, _ma lath_ ,” he purrs, the sound sliding against all of her, causing her skin to prickle in anticipation.

 

He is a hunter; his voice is the trap, and she is willing prey.

 

“Please!”

 

He laughs, delighted, and the core of her clenches, futilely seeking a fullness that is not there.

 

It is clear that he will only indulge her if she gives in.

 

It is not a hardship; he has ensnared her a long time ago.

 

_“I want you, Solas.”_


	7. Evanescent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> Fugacious - transient or fleeting
> 
> * * *

Hushed conversation. Quiet looks. Stolen kisses.

 

Always rushed. Always hidden.

 

She doesn’t care about what the world might think, but he does. 

 

“You are the Herald of Andraste,” he always says. “The Inquisitor. Thousands look up to you, worship you. You cannot be seen with the likes of me. I- I am a nobody.”

 

She protests each time. “You are a Warden!” She can’t understand why he hangs his head low, why he takes an imperceptible step backwards every time she says it.

 

So she tries to change tactics. “I used to be part of the Carta. I was a criminal! I never asked to be called Herald. Why do you use it against me?”

 

But still he shakes his head sadly, still refuses to love her in the light of day.

 

What he offers is too little. It is good, but it is ephemeral. A tumble in the middle of the night, the moon obscured by thick clouds. A kiss in the shadows, back pressed against a crumbling wall. A stilted, rushed conversation in the middle of staring eyes.

 

Part of her likes it, likes the secrecy, the idea of forbidden fruit.

 

But that part is in the minority.

 

She already feels impermanent. Disposable. She doesn’t want transitory; she wants something enduring. She wants to feel grounded. To feel normal. 

 

Sometimes she thinks she will not live with so little.

 

But he is gentle. Treats her with care. Listens to her with attention. Soothes her frustrations with kindness.

 

It is more than what anyone else can give her.

 

So she continues their surreptitious dalliance. 


	8. Hollow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Fuscous** \- dark and somber in color_
> 
> * * *

Grey clouds, low-hanging, solemn and serious.

 

Muted light, low in intensity, as though hesitant over whether or not it was welcome.

 

The stares of a hundred eyes as she made her way into the fortress. Head held high, eyes narrowed, a forbidding glance to anyone who meandered into her path.

 

She crossed the threshold into the Great Hall. Entered the rotunda.

 

Her face began to itch.

 

Her cheeks began to burn.

 

Her eyes began to water.

 

But still she held her head high.

 

He was seated high on a platform, brush carefully applying a deep dark black onto a scene she vaguely recognized as the Temple of Mythal.

 

The voices from the Well began to whisper again, words whose meanings she could not comprehend. She shut her eyes, trying to decipher them, desperate to unravel the warning they shouted at her.

 

She let out a hissed sound of defeat.

 

He turned to look at her. Face bleak. Eyes a stony granite, filled with despair and guilt. Hands stained with black paint.

 

She thought she caught a glimpse of heart’s-blood red at the corners of his mouth.

 

He shook his head. Turned away.

 

She stood there. Waiting. Calling out to him in a silent plea.

 

He refused to meet her eyes.

 

The air in the room dropped several degrees. Leliana’s ravens began to squawk their displeasure.

 

More eyes on her.

 

The torch nearest to her sputtered out; she welcomed the grimness of the shadows that fell on her.

 

She waited.

 

Finally, he stirred. “I am busy, Inquisitor. Perhaps we can meet later?”

 

His back was still to her.

 

She was empty inside. Empty and dark. And it was his fault.

 

“ _ Dirthara ma,  _ Solas.”

 

He stiffened. Hung his head in shame.

 

She left the room. She was still empty.

  
  



	9. Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Goluptious** \- delightful; luscious_
> 
> * * *

“Commander. I'd like to see you in my Chambers, please.”

 

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

 

She cocked her head to one said, raised her eyebrow. “Now.”

 

It was a command.

 

His eyes widened. “Of- of course.”

 

She walked out if his office, clearly expecting him to follow her. 

 

So he did.

 

And swallowed, hard, once her form was bathed in sunlight.

 

Tight tunic, and tighter breeches perfectly framed a blissfully perfect figure. The gentle dip of her waist, the exquisite flare of hips. The beautifully rounded posterior covered in satin.

 

It was all he could do to not yank her down out of sight and feast on the succulence of her flesh.

 

She looked at him over her shoulder, a brazen smirk on her lips.

 

His cock stirred with interest. Clearly, she had a game in mind.

 

He entered her rooms, shutting the door firmly behind him, and climbed up the stairs.

 

The sight waiting for him at the top made his mouth go dry. Bent over her desk, her breeches pulled down to the ankles was the Inquisitor.

 

And she had no smalls on.

 

She wiggled her lush bottom at him. Winked. Flashed him a cheeky smile.

 

“I seem to be in need of your services, Commander.”

 

He smiled, slow and wide and predator-like as he pulled his gloves off, ready and eager to get started.

 

“As you wish, Inquisitor.”

  
  



	10. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Hesychastic** \- keeping silence; soothing or quieting_
> 
> * * *

She wakes with her heart thundering and her blood pounding in her ears.

 

The nightmares… they are never easy to bear.

 

She takes in deep breaths - slowly, quietly. She does not want to disturb his peaceful slumber.

 

Her lover has his share of nightly terrors. There is no need for him to bear the burden of hers as well.

 

She shifts, and rolls over. Places her feet on the ground. The floor is cold, and it makes her shiver, but it’s good. It’s  _ real _ . 

 

She focuses on the way the chill radiates up her ankles.

 

Behind her, there is a stirring, and she sighs softly. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

 

“‘S no problem,” he sleepily murmurs. “I was already awake.”

 

She huffs out a quiet laugh. “Go back to sleep, love.”

 

“No, no, I’m awake.” He sits up with a yawn, the backs of his hands rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair is tousled, messy curls flopping over his forehead. 

 

He is adorable, and he is hers.

 

The simple realization warms her, dispels the last of the dreams. She can’t help but smile up at him.

 

He moves behind her, drawing her back to his chest.

 

She welcomes the warmth.

 

“Nightmares?” he guesses in a hushed whisper. His hands stroke up and down her arms.

 

She debates lying for a moment, but exhales instead. “Yes.”

 

He understands, and doesn’t say anything else. He wraps his arms around her, tucks her head beneath his, and pulls the soft wool blanket over their forms.

 

They stare out of the window. The night is still, the stars bright and welcome.

 

She listens to the gentle thump of his heart in the silence. It lulls her back to slumber.

  
  



	11. Plummet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Inspissate** \- to thicken or congeal_
> 
> * * *

The ambush had taken them completely by surprise.

 

The path was supposed to be clear. Suledin Keep had been cleared out, requisitioned for the Inquisition's use. The trip back to the village of Sahrnia was supposed to be routine. Mundane. Boring, even.

 

But it had not.

 

The Red Templars had struck in the middle of the day, pouring out of the remnants of the now-dismantled quarry, shadows and knights and marksmen, catching them at their weakest.

 

The battle was fierce and intense, the clang of steel echoed harshly in the air. He flung spells with careful aim, constantly moving to avoid the archers looking for a target.

 

They found one.

 

Lavellan fell with a choked cry, a sound he heard even over the din of the battlefield. He watched with horror and her body hit the ground, at the dark maroon stain that pooled around her, so stark against the pristine snow.

 

He rushed to her side without even realizing it; it felt as though the air had condensed around him, making it harder for him to get to her.

 

Her life's blood poured out of a gaping wound, her hand futilely pressed against her side. Crimson liquid clotting to crimson sludge in the freeze of the Emprise. 

 

A muttered incantation beneath his breath, and the Templars knight who stood over her was no more. He sank to his knees beside her, fingers instantly stained rust red, the tang of iron thick around them.

 

“ _ Vhenan _ ,” he begged, pushing his magic into her, “stay with me, please.”

 

Her bloody fingers slipped as they tried to wrap themselves around his wrist.

 

“S-Solas,” she croaked. “H-help me.”

 

“You will be fine,” he promised, drawing on the the dregs of what little mana remained, wholly ignoring the dread rapidly solidifying in the pit of his stomach.

 

He could not lose her.  _ He could not. _ He would not allow it.


	12. Bargain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Jocoserious** \- half in jest, half serious_
> 
> * * *

“Savage beasts, all of them.”

 

“And she’s a  _ mage _ . Who knows what twisted magic she carries?”

 

“My cousin swears their mages use blood magic. He says that they caused Knight Commander Meredith to go insane!”

 

Haminah took a deep breath, leaving the balcony in favor of- of  _ what _ she didn’t know. All she knew was that if she listened to any more of the Orlesian’s crap, she was going to lose her temper.

 

And as Josephine had warned her - repeatedly - that was the one thing she  _ could not _ do.

 

Her brows knitted into a frown.

 

_ Fuck these people _ . Pretentious bastards, the lot of them, giggling and gossiping and so ignorant of the danger that faced them all.

 

_ No _ , she corrected herself. They weren’t ignorant. They just didn’t care. 

 

Why the fuck was she bending over backwards to impress them?  _ They  _ were the ones who needed her help. She was here to stop Orlais from falling into chaos, for crying out loud, and they were insulting her?

 

“Hey, Frosty,” Varric’s voice cut through her furious thoughts. “You holding up okay?”

 

“Why the fuck are we even here, Varric?” she burst out through gritted teeth. “All they’ve done so far is insult us. When we’re here to save their asses!”

 

“We could always leave, y’know,” he chuckled. “Leave them to stew in their own shit.”

 

“That’s-” Haminah turned the idea over in her mind. It sounded very appealing. “That’s not a half bad suggestion.”

 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Varric backtracked. “You’re not serious, are you?”

 

“Aren’t you?”

 

“Well, shit, Frosty, I was just kidding!”

 

“I’m not,” she deadpanned, then sighed when she noticed how alarmed Varric looked. “Well, not entirely.” She sighed again. “I’m not drunk enough to deal with this.”

 

Varric patted the side of her hip encouragingly. “The sooner you wrap this up, the sooner we can leave. And I’ll get you the good stuff once we get back to Skyhold.”

 

‘You promise?”

 

“You have my word.” He winked at her.

 

She laughed. “I’ll hold you to that.”


	13. Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Kenspeckle** \- easily recognizable or distinguishable_
> 
> * * *

Her legs were shaky as she stepped through the eluvian. They were still wobbly when she exited, and she took a few seconds to breathe in and out deeply, to try and regain her energy.

 

She was dying. She knew it, even as she knew she had to keep moving if she wanted to save Solas.

 

Her eyes landed on the Qunari around her. The ones the Viddasala had taken with her to attack the man she loved but-

 

-they were all  _ stone _ .

 

_ What had happened _ ?

 

She took a cautious step forward, then another.

 

_ “Ebasit kata. Itwa-ost.” _

 

That voice.

 

_ That voice! _

 

She knew that voice. She’d heard it in a hundred tones, a thousand inflections. That voice had calmed her fears, had whispered love to her.

 

It had haunted her dreams for two years.

 

She broke into a run. She had to get to him, had to,  _ had to _ , before-

 

“Your forces have failed. Leave now, and tell the Qunari to trouble me no longer.”

 

She heard the words, and they set off an alarm in her head, but she was in a rush, she couldn’t analyze them; Solas was somewhere up ahead,  _ Solas, Solas,  _ the man she loved, the man she hated herself for loving-

 

She reached the top of the path, panting, the Viddasala just there but too far away, and she had no breath left in her to call out a warning as-

 

Time slowed to a crawl as the Qunari raised her spear over her shoulder, as she-

 

_ -as she turned to stone- _

 

The Viddasala was stone.

 

Just like the rest of the Qunari.

 

And- and the only person who had been with them was-

 

-was  _ Solas- _

 

But he hadn’t even been  _ facing _ the Viddasala, how had he known-

 

-why was he dressed like that?-

 

Was it even- no, no, of course it was him, she knew the shape and form of him intimately, knew the way his eyes would soften when he looked at her, knew the way his breath fanned out against her neck-

 

Something was-  _ something was wrong- _

 

“Solas?” 


	14. Unravel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Laniary** \- of teeth or claws designed for tearing (especially canine teeth)_   
>  **NSFW**
> 
> * * *

Her back is to the wall, skin pressed up against cold stone. She’s naked, covered only by the way he looms over her.

 

Goosebumps run up the length of her arms, not from the chill of the closet, but from the the warmth of his breath as he blows against her peaked nipple, still wet from his mouth.

 

His knee is wedged between her legs, and she grinds against it desperately, whines because the friction was so good yet not enough.

 

He laughs into her ear, low and wicked. His teeth - sharp, so sharp - nips at her neck. Soft and gentle at first, a pin-prick of pain soothed with the soft press of lips, but it gives way to harder bites, and she can feel the strength in his jaw as his teeth clamp down on her flesh, leaving bruises in their wake.

 

Bruises that she will have to hide tomorrow, marks of their passion tonight. 

 

She welcomes them, hisses at him for more.

 

He obliges.

 

His fingers grip her hips, nails digging into the roundness of her ass. 

 

She captures his lips with hers, slides her tongue against keen canines. He moans into her mouth, reprimands her by using those same teeth on the tip of her ears.

 

She cries out, bucks against him.

 

He runs his fingers down her sides, teases the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

 

She waits, with bated breath, for his touch where she wants it the most.

 

He moans as his fingers slid through her slickness. Her knees grow weak.

 

Teeth set against her pulse. Nails lightly grazing the softest part of her.

 

He could tear her to shreds with ease if he chose to.

 

And he chooses to.

 

Over and over.

  
  



	15. Affected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Lippitude** \- soreness of the eyes_
> 
> * * *

“Inquisitor- _ Amaryllis! _ Your eyes-” Cullen rushes to her side, apprehension bright in his honey brown eyes. “What’s the matter?”

 

She clears her throat before replying, willing away the lump in her throat. “I’m-” her voice is scratchy.  _ Shit _ . She tries clearing her throat again. “I’m fine.”

 

He isn’t convinced, just stares at her with so much care and concern. 

 

She doesn’t deserve his affection. She doesn’t- not his, nor anyone else’s. Not after-

 

She spins abruptly on her foot, her back to him. “Did you need me for something, Commander?”

 

_ Commander. _ Not  _ Cullen _ . She has to put that distance between them, it is the only thing to do, the only  _ right _ thing to do, he deserves better-

 

“Rylli.” His voice is soft, his hand on her shoulder softer. Gentle, so gentle as he turns her around to face him. “Talk to me.”

 

His solicitude is genuine, and his worry for her has put a small frown between her brows. Thoughtlessly, she raises a hand and tries to rub it away with her thumb.

 

“Rylli.” His hand wraps around her wrist, thumb rubbing circles on the center of her palm.

 

“I-” her voice breaks. “Stroud.”

 

He understands immediately, pulls her into the protection of his arms, cradles her head against his chest.

 

“I know,” he murmurs sadly against the top of her head. “I know.”

 

She weeps into his coat, and he lets her.

 

Her eyes are still gritty.

  
  



	16. Daunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Minatory** \- threatening_
> 
> * * *

She was ex-Carta. She’d seen things - had seen a lot of things even before shit exploded and the Fade shat out demons.

 

So she didn’t consider herself easily intimidated. Or at all, really. _She_ did the terrorizing. It was something she was good at.

 

But there was just _something_ about the Winter Palace…

 

Too many masks, for one. False smile and sharp eyes. She knew this world, had swum in something like this before. But here, where words were laced with venomous honey and necks dripped with dazzling diamonds, she felt-

 

Out of place.

 

And they made sure she knew it.

 

Satins and silks covered her from all sides, conversation pressed her to the ground. Here, trapped by societal convention, her daggers were useless.

 

Lords and ladies gambled away gold, tossing their sovereigns away the way she’d tossed breadcrumbs to ducks. They sparred with words, destruction under the pretence of a game, laughing as those defeated bled out on marble tiles.

 

Maddie thought the Venatori were not the biggest monsters that lurked the halls of the Palace.

 

It was chilling, the way nothing was sacred to the people around her - not life, not love, not virtue, not compassion, and she felt herself growing smaller, shoulders slumping, as their barbs hit true.

 

She didn’t belong here-

 

A bright smile from a Red Jenny, a careless wink. “What a fun, close-marrying crowd,” said sarcastically with a snerk.

 

_She didn’t belong here._

 

And she was fine with it.


	17. Recall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Mnemonist** \- one from whose memory nothing is erased_
> 
> * * *

There was little she did not remember.

 

She does not consider it a blessing.

 

Memories haunt her when she tries to rest at night. The way her mother had looked at her, sorrow and guilt heavy on her brow. The way Tamlen had held her hand as they entered the cave. Blisters on her feet bursting as she walked to Ostagar with Duncan.

 

It itches the back of her mind when she is awake. Scent of darkspawn blood, thick and cloying. Piercing pain, arrow in her chest. Anger and sorrow and betrayal.

 

And struggle. Constant struggle.

 

It mocks her when the deepest of her scars throb when the weather is cold. Clash of steel against steel, scent of iron so heavy. Red on her hands, on her face, in her hair. Cries of valor, and of pain and anguish.

 

It slithers into her ears when she works, snippets of conversations. Easy laugher, ready smiles. Care and concern from woman with a gentle voice. Raven-haired shapeshifter with disbelieving wonder and a thawing heart.

 

Incessant battles, endless darkspawn. Deep roads, and deeper, Branka, Caridin. There are so many images of them.

 

She does not  _ want _ them; yet they persist.

 

Archdemon, Fort Drakon.

 

Victory.

 

She wishes it had ended there, but it did not. Now, instead, she hears a melody in her head, words so soft she can’t make them out. The melody is- 

 

Irresistible.

 

But she know she cannot pay heed to it. She dares not.

 

Because, of all the things that she remembers, there is one that stands out the most.

 

_ Hespith. _


	18. Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Nubilate** \- to obscure_
> 
> * * *

Of all the strange things that have occurred since his arrival at the Conclave, she was by far the strangest.

 

He would have once considered her an adversary - perhaps he did, but it was not for long. How could he, when she was filled with determination and drive? Her blunt honesty, disarming in its sincereness, was so refreshing from all the secrets he’d encountered.

 

He was Julian Cristoff Trevelyan, borne of a long-known and well-established noble lineage, and perhaps he had become accustomed to the renown associated with the Trevelyan name; yet here she was, an actual princess in line to a throne - no matter how far displaced she was from it - yet she cared not a whit for the name, nor the fortunes associated with it, content instead to forge her own destiny.

 

She was everything he’d never known he’d needed, and now that he’d met her he didn’t think he could settle for anything less. 

 

He loved her, and he wanted her to know it. She made him so happy; it was the least he could to do put a smile on her face.

 

So he planned.

 

The next morning, there was a rose on her bedside. A young lad told him how she brought it to her nose, corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled.

 

A rose with her breakfast brought out a lovely blush on her cheeks. She looked around for him, but he stayed where he was; out of her sight, but keeping her within his.

 

Several roses tied to the hilt of her sword; Bull teased her mercilessly, but he saw the way she beamed when she thought no one was looking.

 

A dozen roses arranged neatly in the hidden alcove that was hers; paired with a bottle of her favorite wine, opened and left to air, and a dozen of her favorite tarts. He watched as she squealed with excitement when she discovered Varric’s latest writing.

 

He stayed out of her view for all of the day, intent on surprising her at the end of it; but alas, his plans went awry. A last-minute meeting with a temperamental noble meant that he was only able to return to his chambers when the candles were burned to stumps; exhausted and defeated from his dealings with men who did little but wanted much, he opened the door to his chamber wearily.

 

And stumbled backwards in surprise.

 

She was curled up in front of the fireplace, deep into the book he had given her earlier. To her side was a tray, with dinner for two. 

He must have made a sound, for she turned her gaze to him.

 

And he was lost, inexorably, in the wide, beatific smile she gave him.

 

“I thought you could use some company,” Cassandra quipped.

 

“Company?” he echoed.

 

She smiled again. “ _ Good _ company,” she amended, and patted the space on the floor next to her.

 

He didn’t need another invitation.


	19. Artifact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> __**Otiose** \- serving no practical purpose
> 
> * * *

_ Marel, _

 

_ Pretty concerned over the last report you sent. Is the Inquisitor really in that bad a shape? Boss hasn’t slept a wink since you mentioned that she was down with an illness. I know they were close in the past, but I figured after the boss let her know who he was, it’d have put a damper on things. Guess there’s no understanding those two, huh? _

 

_ Right, so here’s your orders - monitor the situation closely. And I mean  _ **_closely_ ** _. She so much as breathes the wrong way, you let the boss know. Do all you can to help her recover. Short of exposing yourself, that is. Don’t think I need to remind you, but that’s from the boss himself. He says to let you know there’ll be a stash of herbs in the usual spot. Add it to her food, it’ll help. _

 

_ Hey, since you’re so close to Lavellan, maybe you can help me figure this out? The boss has this… really strange thing he keeps fiddling with, all the time. It’s a small gold hoop, kinda looks like an earring? If it is, I dunno where the other one is. Seems to be real important to him, too. Matter of fact, I caught him the other day just… playing with it. Rotating it between his fingers over and over. He looked real down about it, too. Never seen him so sad - I’m not gonna lie, it made  _ _ me _ _ sad. And you know I don’t get too torn up about things. _

 

_ Anyway, that’s all for now. Remember - you gotta help Lavellan get back to normal, don’t let anyone catch on about your situation. And for the love of Mythal, if you know anything about that thing the boss has, you gotta let me know. _

 

_ Fen’harel enansal. _


	20. Lethal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Phthartic** \- deadly; destructive_
> 
> * * *

Her back was arched, bent backwards in a shape so like the bow she favored, her hair an ebony curtain that swayed with the rhythm of her movement.

 

Eyes tightly shut, cheeks flushed with pleasure. Her lips, made plump from his mouth on hers, so attractive, so  _ irresistible  _ \- he had to reach up and taste her again. Her tongue dipped into his mouth, mimicking the way he was sheathed so deep within her core-

 

He gasped when she wantonly rolled her hips, lapis blue eyes lit with mischief.

 

“So- so  _ good _ ,  _ ma lath _ ,” he whimpered, wordlessly pleading for more.

 

And she, tiny little thing with eyes like stars and a spirit so precious - she gave, and she gave, and he begged for more, and still more - and it was not enough, it would never be enough, he could never be satiated on her love, so freely given - and wasn’t that the biggest miracle of all, that someone so  _ mortal _ could stir his heart - the very same heart he had thought to eternally frozen?

 

She could be the end of him if he let her, and he- he did not think it such a terrible thing.

 

Her breath let out in a stutter, and he knew she was close.

 

He needed to see her shatter. He had to know that it was he who took her over the peak. He needed to hear his name on her lips, for she made it sound a prayer when he knew it was not.

 

He brought his fingers to where they were joined, and sought out her the tiny button that peeked out from between her folds. A press of his thumb and she unravelled around him, her cries a balm that soothed the restless part of him.

 

Still she gave, and rode him ceaselessly till he, too, succumbed to the whirlpool of pleasure.

 

She slumped onto his chest, boneless, and he held her tight - she who had been his beginning, she who would be his end.


	21. Unfeasible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Quixotic** \- not sensible about practical matters_   
> 
> 
> * * *

“I am  _ not _ wearing a dress.” Maddie stuck her chin out, pressing her lips together in an attempt to stop herself from swearing.

 

“But Inquisitor, it’s the Grand Masquerade Ball, everyone will be wearing gowns and masks-”

 

“That’s another thing I won’t be wearing. Masks. If the Orlesians want to cover up their hideous faces, that’s their business, but there’s no way  _ I’m _ going to hide my gorgeous self.” Ignoring Josephine’s horrified gasp, she focused instead on the report she was holding in her hands.

 

An assassin in the Winter Palace. Empress Celene’s life in danger. The Inquisition had made every attempt to warn her, but to no avail. Either the Empress had no concern for their reports, or - and this was more likely - their correspondence with Celene was being interrupted.

 

Maddie tried to call upon her years of assassin experience.  _ If I were attempting to assassinate the Empress, where would I strike from- _

 

“Please, Inquisitor,” Josephine’s voice put a halt to her train of thoughts. “If we do not play by Orlais’ rules, we will be thrown out of the Palace. All our efforts to stop Corypheus will have been in vain. I’m sure we can tailor a dress to whatever requirements you may have-”

 

“Okay, fine,” Maddie rolled her eyes. “I want a dress that doesn’t look like a dress.”

 

“Inquisitor!”

 

“Josie, I love you, but I’ve already told you  _ several  _ times that I’m  _ not _ wearing a dress,” she reminded. “They’re very hard to move in. And if I do wear one, I’ll have to wear matching shoes, which, again, would be almost impossible to be stealthy in. I’m an assassin, for pity’s sake. I need something that’ll let me move around  _ without notice _ and  _ quietly _ . A dress is just - fuck, it’s the most impractical thing I can think of! I can’t do my job in one!”

 

Josephine was silent for a long while. “Very well, Inquisitor,” she conceded, sounding defeated. “I’ll make alternate arrangements.”

 

“Thank you, Josie. I knew I could count on you.”


	22. Disregard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Recalcitrant** \- stubbornly resistant to authority or control_
> 
> * * *

_We found him alive,_ **_offering extreme resistance_ ** _…_

 

_...extreme resistance..._

 

To outsiders, Haminah might have looked disinterested in the proceedings. Bored, even. But her friends and companions knew better.

 

When she was as blank-faced as she was now, there was a storm in the offing.

 

“I recognize none of this proceeding. You have no authority to judge me.”

 

She felt a muscle in her jaw twitch angrily. This asshole- this _bastard_ , this piece of _absolute scum_ who had been behind the death of so many, who had nearly caused the demise of a long-honored group- he-he-

 

_He didn’t care_.

 

That was what aggravated her the most. She’d encountered assholes before - Denam and Florianne sprung to mind immediately - but neither of them had known the full extent of Corypheus’ plans.

 

Erimond, however… for his crimes, even _death_ was too much a mercy for him.

 

No, for him, she had something… _different_ … in mind.

 

“A mages’ crime.” She paused, waiting for everyone’s eyes to settle on her. “A mages’ punishment.” She grinned, baring her teeth to all. “Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium,” _it will be the last time he would recognize it_ , “I deny you death. **_Tranquility_ ** **.** ”

 

A hush settled over the Great Hall for a collective breath-span. Then, chaos.

 

She had struck him where it would hurt the most, and she reveled in his furious fear.

 


	23. Pretense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Rubescent** \- reddening; blushing_
> 
> * * *

Maddie stood in the middle of the crowd in Val Royeaux, staring up at the man with a noose around his neck, thinking of the note they’d found in his quarters when he’d so abruptly disappeared.

 

_ The traitor, Mornay, who was responsible for the death of General Vincent Callier and his family, will be hung by the neck till death at noon- _

 

Why had Blackwall been interested in this? She hadn’t pegged him to be the kind of man who enjoyed the spectacle of public execution. And she was pretty sure he had no interest in Orlesian politics- so  _ why _ ?

 

And more importantly,  _ where was he _ ?

 

Before the executioner could act- a disturbance. 

 

Maddie stared up at Blackwall on the platform, his loud voice bringing the proceedings to a halt, a niggling feeling of  _ something fucked up is about to happen- _

 

Well, shit.

 

It was worse than she’d thought. As he confessed to his crimes, her face paled, the blood draining from it. Beside her, her companions were equal parts shocked and disgusted.

 

She couldn’t blame them.

 

As she made her way to the prison, her face flushed with fury. The fucker had lied. He’d lied to the Inquisition - to  _ her _ .

 

And worse - she’d  _ fallen _ for it. Actually  _ believed _ he was who he said he was. Had fallen for the countless lies he’d told her - a sudden realization hit her.  _ This _ was why the false Calling never affected him.  _ This _ was why he he’d always been so shifty about the topic of Wardens, why it’d felt at times as though he didn’t know anything about the Order.

 

She was left with the bitter feeling that she should have left  _ him _ behind in the Fade instead of Stroud. 

 

He told her his truths, and she listened, blank-faced and steely-eyed, cheeks red with anger. 

 

He never once looked away from her gaze. She had to admit to a grudging respect for that.

It was hours before she spoke to Cullen, the Commander grim-faced with a leashed temper of his own.

 

_ What do you want to do? _ he’d asked.

 

She glanced back into the dark room where he squatted behind steel bars. Thought over everything she’d learned about him.

 

Sighed.

 

“I don’t know.”


	24. Sagacious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Sapiential** \- relating to wisdom; providing wisdom_
> 
> * * *

This world was not what he had wanted it to be.

 

It was broken. Beyond broken. It was an grievously injured thing that did not even know how fractured and shattered it was. 

 

And it had little interest in healing itself.

 

When he had woken from his long sleep - a slumber that was not as restful as it should have been - he had been convinced -  _ convinced! _ \- that he was yet in repose, that his wards had failed and some errant demon had wandered in and conjured up such horrific sights.

 

But when he tried to breathe, there was no magic that entered his lungs, and it was with dawning horror that he realized that  _ this _ was his reality.

 

This twisted, warped state of affairs, this mockery of everything he had known.

 

_ And it was all his fault _ .

 

He did not want to acknowledge it, in the beginning. The first few weeks, as he wandered around, gathering what information he could. It was easier to assume that someone  _ else _ was responsible. He could not imagine that he was the villain; not he, he who had taken the slur of Dread Wolf and turned it into a thing of hope.

 

But.

 

Alas.

 

It was his plan, that had lead to this. His attempt at sealing away those unbelievably corrupted by power had gone hopelessly astray, and had lead to the near decimation of his people; not that he could even call them  _ his _ people any longer, so vastly different were they from the proud, majestic beings that had lived and thrived in his time.

 

These…  _ creatures _ -it was the only thing he could call them, for they were too civilized to be labelled  _ beast _ yet too primal to be  _ feral _ \- they took the terrible and awful things from their history and left behind all that was good and worthy of saving - and yet they called  _ him _ a madman.

 

He tried to talk sense to them - to tell them of the truth - but their minds were much like the looks they had given him, icy and reserved and guarded and closed. They refused to believe that the “gods” whose favor they clamored for - whose voices they could not hear, whose help they would never receive - were, in fact, not gods at all.

 

He still had the scar on his back from where one of their hunters had attacked him for daring to suggest that the Dread Wolf was not so Dread.

 

And so it was with a heavy heart that he began to plan once more.


	25. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Stultify** \- deprive of strength or efficiency; make useless or worthless_
> 
> * * *

She liked the darkness.

 

At one point of time, when the world was ending but she could still smile, she would’ve joked and said  _ the darkness is my friend _ , but now- now it seemed to be her only friend.

 

For it was the only thing that let her pretend.

 

Pretend that nothing was wrong.

 

Pretend that her heart wasn’t broken.

 

Pretend that she was  _ whole _ \- mind, body, spirit.

 

Easier to sit in the middle of a soft bed, wool blankets piled over her, than-

 

She squinted at the windows. There was a sliver of light that had managed to thread its way through the thick curtains.

 

She shifted. Placed her left arm on the bed for balance.

 

Fell.

 

She curled up within herself, pressing the now-useless limb into the mattress in a strange, desperate attempt to- to ignore it, or will it to regrow, she didn’t know.

 

Her cheeks felt wet. There was salt on her lips and tongue.

 

Her arm hurt. She didn’t move.

 

She closed her eyes. Fell into a sunny day. Easy to pretend the warmth of the covers was the heat of the sun. There was a hart in the distance. The clan needed food. She raised her arm.

 

She was still holding her bow.

 

The arrow flew straight and true. The hart staggered on its feet. Stumbled. Shifted into the form of a white wolf.

 

Her arm hurt. She looked at it. It was burning with a green flame.

 

She ran towards a lake. Plunged the limb into the water, but it became a lake of green flame.

 

She cried. Her arm was agony. She looked at the wolf.

 

His eyes flashed blue. The green flames vanished.

 

She was still looking at him. He had her heart in one hand. Her arm in the other.

 

He turned and disappeared into the woods. 

 

She made her way to where he had stood. There was a heart by her feet.

 

She opened her eyes. It was still dark.

 

There was still that sliver of light.

 

She swore violently into the shadows. Screamed. Cursed.

 

Sighed.

 

Rolled out of bed.

 

Reached out with her right hand to pull back the curtains.


	26. Stalwart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day
> 
> _**Trousseau** \- clothes, linen, and other belongings collected by a bride for her marriage_
> 
> * * *

It is daybreak when she is finally able to escape the party, the party that Josephine had magically conjured up, the victory party, the  _ oh-isn’t-it-nice-that-we-all-lived _ party.

 

Even now, she could hear the sounds of revelry drifting up towards her from the grounds, faint but enthusiastic.

 

She reaches up to massage the sides of her face. Stretches out her jaw, moves it from side to side.

 

It has been taxing, having to plaster that smile on her face all night.

 

She stares out at the horizon. Watches the golden light spill over the mountain peaks. Sky turning from stifling black to soothing blue.

 

_ Your eyes put the sky to shame, vhenan _ . The memory is sudden, unexpected - and unwelcome.

 

The moment is spoiled.

 

She turns away, heads back indoors. Her bed is still pristine. The papers on her desk are where she left them.

 

The room still smells of him.

 

Her eyes feel hot. The tears threaten to overflow. She grits her teeth. Blinks once. Twice. As long as it takes to dispel them.

 

She will not cry for him. She will not.

 

There is something on her bedside table. Something that is not meant to be there.

 

It is a leather cord. There is something dangling from it, something that she cannot see-  _ yet _ . 

 

Her heart begins to beat faster. She can’t help it. She picks it up.

 

It comes into view. So familiar.

 

She doesn’t know whether to laugh, or to cry.

 

There is a wolf’s jawbone hanging from the cord. She thinks it is his answer to the questions she had demanded of him.

 

She knows he will not return to see her.

 

She flings it across the room. Doesn’t care that her vision is so blurred she can’t see where it lands. She screams at the fireplace. Curses. Begs. Pleads.

 

She is still alone.

 

She walks over to the wardrobe. Opens the heavy oak doors. Pushes apart the myriad hangers, sensible cloth and leathers moved to the sides to reveal a wooden box tucked away at the very back, hidden from sight.

 

She falls to her knees. Pulls the box towards her. Traces reverent fingers across the ornate wooden pattern on the lid.

 

_ Mamae _ , she remembers the letter.  _ Will you please send me my box? I think- I think the time has come. I think he is going to ask me. If he doesn’t, I will. _

 

Her fingers are trembling as she gently raises the lid. It is still there, no longer a promise of hope; instead it mocks her, a symbol of all that she no longer has.

 

She lifts it up. Warm cream silk, pattern of vines and flowers flowing up the skirt. Bodice covered in the lace her mother had painstakingly crafted.

 

She cries out, angered agony. Rises to her feet in a fluid motion, stalks her way to the blaze in the hearth. Crumples the gown between two hands, and-

 

Stops.

 

She cannot do it.

 

She stands there, an eternity measured in breaths. Moves to the bed. Lays the gown gently on it, smooths out the wrinkles and creases as best as she can. Searches for his necklace, and finds it hidden beneath her desk.

 

She places it carefully on the bodice. Folds the gown carefully. Tucks it back into its hidden place. Shuts the wardrobe with a heavy sigh.

 

She rests her head against the wooden doors. Breathes in deeply, once, twice. Straightens.

 

She will not let him get away so easily.

  
  



End file.
